A Pigeon Among the Cats (11 page)

The coach party, deposited in the shade of trees beside the drive, assembled at the foot of a wide flight of steps that led up from the gravel to the entrance doors of the monastery. Billie explained that they would be taken round the establishment by a priest, not a monk, and as he was not sure of his English he would explain to her in Italian and she would translate this.

So they waited, chatting quietly among themselves. They had a new and interesting topic to enliven them, for Mr. and Mrs. Banks and the quarantined couples had joined them again from Perugia. But Penny Banks was still absent. Gwen stood with Mrs. Lawler and her friends. She seemed as apathetic as usual, not sulky, only withdrawn.

“Until her sudden, indrawn breath and startled eyes, staring back down the drive, brought the other three to look in the same direction.

Owen Strong, was walking towards them, not hurrying, not dawdling, just approaching steadily to an expected appointment a faint smile lifting the corner of his scarred mouth, dark glasses hiding the eyes that did not share the smile.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely as he reached the coach party.

It was addressed to Gwen and her immediate companions, but in a voice loud enough to bring response from the others who had seen him before; notably the Blundells and the Woodruffs.

Gwen said nothing, only drew nearer to Flo Jeans. Mrs. Lawler said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Strong. I thought it was you in the yellow car.”

“You passed me,” he aswered, not in the least put out. “It doesn't climb like my old ‘Success'.” He paused, then said, the smile growing to clown width, “I suppose Gwen told you we were half-drowned in the thunderstorm the day before yesterday?”

“Yes. And the car put out of action.”

“Only temporarily. They have lent me this yellow job while the drying-out goes on.”

At this point Billie reappeared at the top of the steps with a young man in a black sweater and neat black slacks. To the astonishment of the tourists, who had expected an elderly gentleman in gown and biretta, she introduced him as the priest who would act as guide.

By this time the Italians whose cars were parked outside the gates arrived to join the party, so bi-lingual explanations suited them all. Mrs. Lawler said to Owen, “This will be good for my Italian, which is not much more than basic. You speak it fluently I believe.”

“Pretty well,” he answered quietly.

They all moved up the outside staircase and into the building. Gwen, with a brief greeting, moved away from Owen to join Mr. and Mrs. Banks. She had avoided Myra and Flo since lunch, for mat meal had been so awkward, so silent so embarrassing that she felt sure Rose Lawler had told the others the story of her own exposure in the schoolmarm's room, in spite of her promise not to do so. Mean old cow, seeing she had not taken anything belonging to the old bitch! So she attached herself to the recently returned Banks couple instead, hoping she might perhaps change to their table now that it seemed plain the little camp daughter had left the tour.

“Has Penny gone home after all?” she asked, as the whole party moved into the building.

“Oh no,” Mr. Banks answered after a little pause, while Mrs. Banks looked away, apparently concentrating on Billie's translation of the young priest's remarks.

This was not encouraging. Had the girl been taken into custody or just warned off? Had she been charged with having, using or even peddling the cannabis Gwen's nose had already detected, in spite of the opened window in the coach. Had Penny exchanged a hospital bed for a prison cell? If so surely her parents would exhibit rather more emotion over their neglected child? But perhaps not; they were stupid enough to feel very little about anything. Gwen, still smarting from her untimely exposure, was determined to climb back upon the shortcomings of the Banks family to her former hard-won peak of self-confidence.

Owen watched her carefully without at all being suspected of doing so. Why this change in her? What could have happened, apart of course from the fact that she had probably also seen the newspaper paragraph about the car. So had the garage where it was being serviced. But he had no fears over that. He had hired the thing in Nice from friends who ran a very convenient hire service, using vehicles supplied without questions asked by other friends and acquaintances, including himself. If the present garage chose to check the engine number of the black job, he had his hire-car receipt and they in Nice had theirs for buying it, in a wholly fictitious name. And there the search would end unless the irate owner …

“But you expect the ‘Success' to be dried out by tomorrow?” Mrs. Lawler was asking him.

“Oh yes. I don't see why not. I hope so.”

“We go to Venice tomorrow,” Rose said. “Where do you go next?”

“Venice, of course,” he answered, laughing, which made the nearby tourists look round and frown, so she stopped asking questions, only wondered at his persistence in following such an unprofitable quest, a dangerous one perhaps, certainly worthless. Ought she to warn him? No, that would be going too far. And it was not the kind of thing anyone of her generation would consider possible. But Gwen of all people! A little hotel thief … practised too, with that bunch of suitcase keys! Though she had not time to steal anything from her, herself. With her story of a stolen car, of wanting photographic evidence against Owen!
He
had not behaved like a car thief when he spoke about the “Success” and its present substitute. Far from it.

During the course of the tour inside the building Rose found herself no longer beside Owen; so she joined her friends and stayed with them until they all went out on to a wide terrace.

Here they found again the marvellous views of the Apennines they had enjoyed on the way up the hill. But now spread out on three sides in all their grandeur, row upon row dissolving to the north and east into the blue horizon, falling to the sun-filled south below where the monks cultivated a few acres for the monastery. Beyond lay Florence baking beside the Arno.

Rose swung her camera into position to begin taking pictures. Owen's voice behind her said “May I?” and before she could speak had slipped the strap over her head and taken the camera from her to begin fiddling with the various adjustments.

She was shocked, outraged and suddenly in face of his cool insolence and sleight of hand, afraid. Photographs! Again their possible importance flashed through her mind. She laid her hand upon his which was holding her property as if it were his own, and said as steadily as she could manage: “I have it properly set. This is a new film, so don't mess it up, will you?”

“No,” he said. “Of course not. I see it's new. I just want — may I
please
— to take a picture of you and your friends. I left my camera behind this morning. Stupid of me.”

He was half laughing, but had moved away from her, still holding her camera, brushing off her hand as if it was no more than a fly, she told herself. And now Myra and Flo were beside her and Gwen just behind them.

“Perfect background,” Owen said loudly. “Gwen, come a bit forward. On the parapet side. That's O.K. Now all of you — watch the birdie — say
cheese
— Fine!”

He clicked and wound on and gave the camera back to Mrs. Lawler with a little bow. “I shall expect a print of that,” he concluded.

Rose said nothing. Her astonishment, her anger, had freed all those emotions she usually kept locked away where they did not trouble her. But now they were tumbling out to find excuses for him, to forgive his boyish effrontery in a rush of pity for this maimed, middle-aged, lonely man, driving about the Continent looking for — what? Solace, affection, lost gaiety, destroyed happiness, battered health …

She leaned on the parapet, staring out at the mountains. Gwen and the other two had moved away. But Owen remained.

“I think you must have been in the R.A.F. in the war,” she said, speaking with an effort.

He was surprised, but saw that she was very serious and responded to it.

“Yes, I was,” he answered.

“In a fighter squadron?”

“Yes.”

Feverishly he tried to remember the name of the airfield where he had served, but failed. But it did not matter as she went on speaking.

“You must have been brought down — in flames. Was it over the Channel? Did you manage to get out in time?”

“Yes.” He had to play it carefully: he still did not understand what she was driving at. But there could be no harm in asking, “How do you know all that?”

“I don't really. Except that I was in the W.A.A.F and I married a fighter pilot and it happened to him.”

“I see.” He did not see, so he added, “And so?”

She gathered herself to explain.

“He was burned — very badly — hands and face. And you …”

“Ah.” The scars, yes, that was what she meant. He might have known. Anyone so observant, such curiosity. Of course that accounted for the morbid interest damn her.

He forced himself to say gently, “It was a long, long time ago, Mrs. Lawler. The world has forgotten us. I know you can't do that, but I try …”

She was crying quietly now, he saw, so he left her, detaching Gwen from the others too and saying to them, “Mrs. Lawler seems to be upset. I hope it wasn't my fault hijacking her camera.”

“Rose!” Myra called, hurrying across the terrace. “Rose, there are two of the sweetest little lizards running round the fountain. Come and look!”

Rose blew her nose, wiped her eyes, fixed her dark glasses more firmly and obeyed. The lizards, about four inches long and very active, were darting about the basin of a small dry fountain at the centre of the terrace, pursued by several tourists who were trying to photograph them in their short periods of rest. It was an unproductive task for the lizards were practically invisible against the stone colour of the fountain and would be hard to see on the sunny side of it and impossible to pick out in the shadow.

Gwen drove back to Florence with Owen, a silent drive for each had a good deal to think about that did not concern the other. Owen put her down at the tour hotel, simply told her to look out for him in Venice and drove away at once. She had meant to warn him about Mrs. Lawler, but he gave her no opportunity, so he must take his chance that the old snooper did no harm, with her prying and watching and obvious suspicions.

That evening after dinner Rose invited Myra to a walk along the Arno. They went to the first of the bridges and leaned on it looking down at the water, which seemed low and far away and sluggish.

“Hardly possible to imagine it up to where we are and more in those floods,” Myra said.

“I know. Were you ever here before? I mean can you see any difference?”

“No. And you?”

“It's my first visit too.”

Myra looked at her friend. Mrs. Lawler was staring into the distance now, thinking of all those hard years when she had found neither time nor money to think of going abroad and later when she was alone, still working, saving up to join Tim in Canada. A project that died when he announced his marriage and wrote to say he would bring his Mary to visit her in England instead. So far this had not happened either. So she had come to Italy alone and now …

All at once she felt she must explain to someone, must justify herself in her present dilemma, must stop the dangerous impulses that were beginning to drive her.

“Myra,” she said. “I asked you to come out because if I don't talk to someone I think I shall go round the bend, or get the next plane home or something equally idiotic or desperate.”

It was not the first time Mrs. Donald had been appealed to. Problems were common among her Civil Service friends. Wasn't she going about just now with poor Flo, who had been turned down by a late attachment, the bastard. So she said quietly in an encouraging voice, “Go ahead, Rose. Is it about that odd couple, Gwen Chilton and her pick-up?”

“It certainly is.”

With thankful relaxation Mrs. Lawler explained her problem. She still did not betray Gwen; she had promised the girl; she would not break the promise. But Owen …

“I don't know whether to trust him or not,” she said, with desperation in her voice. “Common sense suggests he is some sort of petty crook, though I can't see what he hopes to get out of Gwen. Or me, for that matter.
Did
he push me in Rome?
Did
he try to get hold of my photographs? If I hadn't changed the film would he have taken it? Or spoiled it? There was one snap left. I sacrificed it and took that film out on purpose and sent it to England to be processed. Why did he insist on taking a photo of us three, no four, with Gwen? Will he try to get hold of that one? Why should he? He has a camera of his own. I've seen him with it. Why didn't he bring it to the monastery?”

Her spate of questions had exhausted her. She stopped speaking. Myra saw that she was trembling.

“What I want to know, Rose,” she said gently, “is why you're so het up about this Owen Strong, this total stranger.”

“Because he makes me think of Charles,” Rose answered. “I — I thought I would never … But he … his poor face …”

Her voice trembled now. Myra put a hand on her friend's arm and said, “You have told us how you lost your fighter pilot husband. He was brought down, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And badly burned? Face and hands?”

“Yes. Terribly, terribly, burned.”

“And died?” Myra whispered.

Rose jerked back from the bridge parapet.

“No!” she cried in a voice of agony. “No, he
lived
! They saved him and mended him. They were so pleased with themselves. They gave him back to me — an appalling, terrifying grotesque!”

Myra recoiled too, outraged by the welling up of that old horror, that sickened, sickening disgust. But she had lived through those times herself, though as a child. She had heard of this thing and not all the victims' loved-ones had been so appalled.